


Looking in

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Flirting, Masturbation, Nudity, Public Nudity, Strangers, Teasing, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27214435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: As a window cleaner, Jon sees everything that goes on inside the hotel rooms. But Daenerys is the first person to give him a show - and encourage him to participate.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 21
Kudos: 192





	Looking in

The woman is:

short, tanned, dressed in white. She has freckles on her cheeks and braids in her hair. She rummages through her suitcase. She talks on the phone. The television is on - ads about yogurts, and fabric softener, and perfumes. _Buy now, buy now, buy now._ Buy a better life, buy a better holiday. Money couldn’t buy a better suite, Jon thinks.

_Room 1029._ The view of New York City is undisturbed; glass and steel and water and, if you crane your neck, the Statue of Liberty. Jon feels it - _freedom._ From his spot outside the high-rise building, he can see it all; the packed street below, the lolling boats in the horizon, the helicopter whirring above. And her:

short, tanned, dressed in pink lipstick. She smacks her lips twice in front of the mirror. She turns. She feels herself; her stomach, her buttocks. Everything is scrutinised. Everything is criticised. Everything is loved - with a sigh, like an admittance of acceptance. If he was with her, Jon thinks she would say:

“I am what I am,” and he would reply:

“Absolutely gorgeous,” and maybe she would peck his cheek, leaving a mark for all to see, the pink stuck in his beard long after he’s rubbed his face clean.

But she’s in the suite, and he’s on the outside.

Jon soaps up the window. He uses a squeegee. His rapid movements make the woman stir. He doesn’t look, but he can see her move; her shadow across the floor, the television turning off, the quiet embarrassment of _being watched_ settling in.

Jon has seen it all: parties, drugs, nudity. Most of the time, it’s simple _indifference._ The people who can afford a suite in the city don’t notice the workers. The maids are invisible, the waiters are a necessity, and the window cleaner? Forgotten.

Until now:

bright violet eyes peer out at him, framed by black lashes, fluttering beneath loose locks of silver hair. Jon stops, and he stares, and the woman stares back at him. She blinks. She reaches over. She pulls the curtain. Jon is faced with the faint reflection of himself against the red backdrop of fabric.

Jon finishes the window. He moves on to the next. His harness gnaws. The suction cup attaches wetly to the glass. The next room is empty - almost. A maid is smoking whilst changing towels. He pretends not to notice.

* * *

The weather is:

grey clouds, rainy air, western breeze. Water has trapped itself in Jon’s right boot. He can feel his sock cling on to his skin. It’s almost as wet as:

the woman, drenched hair, soaked dress. She kicks off her heels before closing the door. They tumble across the carpet. The soles shine red. Jon knows what it means: _expensive._ Like her golden earrings and necklace and wristwatch. She takes it all off in front of the mirror. She shivers from the cold. She swears under her breath. Jon imagines she moans:

“I got caught in the fucking rain!” and the glass mists up as he replies:

“Do you want me to warm you?” and the woman looks out at him and says:

_“Daenerys Targaryen.”_

She doesn’t say it. It’s written on her access card. It also says _VIP_ and _Editor-In-Chief._ It hangs from her lanyard. She pulls it off as she watches him. She steps closer. She cocks her head.

Jon soaps up the window. Behind the disinfectant, he is hidden. He waits longer than necessary. Then he uses his squeegee.

First swipe: the top of Daenerys’ silver hair, her head bobbing as she walks, water running in streams through her locks.

Second swipe: Daenerys’ pale face, her make-up being rubbed off, her body turned to the television. It is on. Ads are playing; buy health insurance, buy painkillers (side effects include: pain), buy a funeral plan. The screen shines blue on her skin. No other lights are on in the suite.

Third swipe: black dress, straps hanging down the shoulders, the fabric scrunched up at her waist.

Fourth swipe: bared buttocks, the hint of a string, stocking gleaming in the light from the television.

Jon flushes. The woman turns. Her behind is full and fleshy and pink, the skin coloured by the cold. He stares. She peers over her shoulder at him. She smirks.

Jon grabs the suction cup. He moves downwards to the next window. He tries not to think about it, but he does: his hands on her ass, his fingers digging into her soft skin, his face sinking between her thighs, his tongue getting to know her.

A man awaits him in the next room. He is on the bed. He’s asleep, and he’s naked. Jon doesn’t look at him. He quickly washes the glass. The view is just not the same, he thinks.

* * *

Daenerys is:

not there.

Jon lingers at the window. He takes his time to clean it. He soaps it once, twice, three times over, each time wiping it down with his squeegee. He pays attention to any dirt in the corners. He pays attention to the suite:

large leather sofas, and big soft armchairs, and built-in wardrobes, and fully stocked minibar, and golden dressing table. It is full of perfumes and makeup and creams. Jon wonders what she feels like. He wonders what she smells like.

_Warm,_ he thinks: from gentle peck of sunlight on her cheeks, and

_Peaches,_ he thinks: from the hint of fuzz on her buttocks, and

_Cheeky,_ he thinks: from the bold way she watched him, and

_Sexy._ The string is on the bed. It is black, and small, and with a hint of lace at the front. It has a tiny bow atop the elastic band. The price tag is still attached. It’s not the one she wore.

\- but Jon imagines that it is the one he pulls off of her. He imagines he bares her sex, and touches her, and enters her. He imagines he fucks her on the carpet, right there in front of the window, exposed to the cityscape.

Jon’s cock throbs. He groans and forces himself to move on. The next window is cleaned swiftly. He counts down the minutes to the end of his shift. He wonders if he’ll make it home, or if he has to jerk off in his car again. The seats have started to smell. His hand has started to ache. _Daenerys Targaryen._ He hopes to see her again soon.

* * *

Jon sees her:

white robe, white slippers, white towel. It is wrapped around her head. She has just showered. Water trails the carpet. The duvet looks damp below her buttocks. Jon can see a patch forming on the floor beneath her.

Daenerys Targaryen is on the phone. She talks and laughs. She looks loud. She is quiet behind the glass. Jon can only imagine: a moan about work, a chat with a friend. Jon can only imagine: a crave for wine, a need for intimacy. Jon can only imagine that she says:

“I’m so tired from work,” and her friend’s reply sounds like the dull critter from a radio when a station is turned. He can’t hear it, and he doesn’t care for it - he just wraps his arms around her from behind, smells the shampoo on her towel, tastes the body-wash on her nape, trails her freckles with his tongue, and he says:

“Take this off,” and her towel falls, revealing her wet hair, and he begs:

“Open this,” and her robe parts, showing her heavy breasts, and he breathes:

“Stand up,” and she does, nude and gorgeous, from the tips of her stiffening nipples to the flush of her pink sex.

Jon snaps back to reality. Jon snaps back to:

nude and gorgeous, from the tips of her stiffening nipples to the flush of her pink sex.

Daenerys smiles. Daenerys turns - casually, almost, as if his prying eyes are alike the newsreader on the television. She is watched, but undisturbed. She is admired, silently, innocently.

But she is not innocent when she feigns surprise at seeing him over her shoulder, and she is not quick when she picks her robe back up, and she doesn’t tie the wrap when she slips it over her shoulders, her breasts still enticing him to stare.

Jon licks his lips. His cock throbs. His hand aches. He soaps up the window. He squeegees it down.

First swipe: nothing.

Second swipe: nothing.

Third swipe: the suite is empty. The bathroom door closes. Jon can see the orange light falling out from below. He wants to move around and peer through the narrow glass, its slim triangular shape just broad enough for his greedy gaze.

\- but he forces himself on. Down, down. Next window, then the next. He thinks about jerking off. He feels the bulge in his trousers. He brushes it, casually, as if just adjusting himself. A maid is smoking and watching him. As she catches his gaze, Jon flushes and pretends to be peeling dirt off the fabric of his uniform. Neither of them believes it. Neither of them reports the other.

* * *

The suite is:

empty - _almost._ Jon doesn’t see her at first. It is a dark day, with clouds knitted tight above the city, and a dark room, not a single light turned on. But there is light. A faint, red glimmer. It goes on, and off, and on, and off. Jon doesn’t recognise it at first. Not until it emerges from the shadows, nears the window, followed by a mist of smoke.

It is a cigarette. It sits between Daenerys’ plump lips. It lights up when she inhales. It dies out when she exhales. The smoke bashes against the cold window and dances across the glass.

Jon stares in at Daenerys: dressed in red, dressed in heels, a smudge of wine on her fingertips, a hint of tease in her eyes.

Daenerys stares out at Jon: black curls, grey eyes, tip of his tongue poking out, his fingertips pressed to the window, edging him closer. She looks at them. She looks at him. She has another drag of her smoke, she leans in, she breathes out - and Jon imagines:

smoke, bashing against his face, the scent of ashes and woman filling his nostrils. He can taste it. He can feel it, like a shiver of desire in his body when her hands drag across the glass, down to his own, as if she wants to touch him. And Jon imagines:

her hands on his body, soft and knowing, as she pulls his uniform off, pushes into his trousers, grabs at his hardening cock. And he imagines:

his hands on her body, hard and demanding, as he tears her dress off, pushes into her pants, enters her wet sex. And he sees:

a smirk, a wink, a bashing of lashes. Daenerys walks backwards away from the window. Her body sways. Her cigarette glows. Her heels slip off - one, by the bed, the second, on the bed. She tumbles onto her back. Her silver hair spills across the pillow. Her lips close tightly around the cigarette. It bobs as she moves, settles, the duvet soft around her frame. In the shadows, Jon can barely see. But he does see:

how her hands slipper down across the rounding of her breasts, explores the soft shape of her stomach, reaches the thickness of her thighs. She wears stockings. They show as she tug at her dress, pulls the hemline up, reveals her garter belt. The string is black. It has a bow on the elastic band. The sight alone makes Jon feel parched.

But her hand in her pants makes his mouth water.

As Daenerys’ fingers disappear behind the lace, Jon presses himself to the glass. His breath fogs up the window. His fingers dirty his work as they drag and pull, as if he could pull himself through the barrier, into the suite, into her.

He wants to: fuck her, hard, make the bed rock and the headboard slam to the wall, fill the suite with so many screams of pleasure that the neighbours complain to the front desk.

He sees her: string aside, fingers entering her shaven sex. Her lips: pink. Her body: wet. Her back: arched. If she makes noise, it’s not audible to him. But he sees her lips part, and smoke drop, the cigarette rolling across the floor and dying out. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t reach for it - she continues, fingering herself, rocking onto her own hand, making love to her own body. She pulls her neckline. Her breasts are escaping the bra. Her nipples peer over the edge. Jon imagines:

his lips closed around the pink buds, his tongue roughly teasing them, making Daenerys whine and plead for less and more, and:

his body, hard and heavy on hers, holding her down, holding her tight, feeling every loved and unloved inch of her skin until he knows her as well as she.

And he sees how she soaks her pants, her hand, her duvet, her juices running down her thighs as she works her body, as she fills herself, as she watches him. Her violet eyes are partially closed. But they do see:

Jon, hard and desperate, his body tight with the window. He is no longer looking in, he thinks - he _is_ in. Inside her thoughts, and her body, her every movement becoming his command. As if he leads her hands, makes her rub herself quicker, pinch her nipples harder. As if it’s his mouth kissing the breath from her lips instead of the pillowcase, the fabric softly folding around her gasping face. As if it’s him saying:

“Do you want to come?” that makes her shiver and quiver. He thinks she says:

“Yes please,” and he grunts:

“Then come.”

Daenerys rocks up, her upper-body lifting from the bed as the orgasm hits her. It rushes through her body. It makes her cheek shine pink, and fingers stiffen in position, partially inside of her, partially dragging at the string. The moment she slumps back down, it snaps back in place. It is barely a garment, just a scrunched piece of fabric doing little to cover her puffed, wet sex.

Jon gasps to the glass. His cock is throbbing. He feels how he’s on edge. He could come, he thinks, dirty himself like a desperate man unable to hold back. His hand aches. His body craves.

\- but it is _she_ who leads him.

Daenerys, rolled onto her front, her eyes on him, her lips parted. As he watches, she pushes her fingers into her mouth, and she rolls her tongue around them. She is tasting herself. She is tasting him: Jon imagines his cock disappearing into her wet mouth, feeling her tongue, feeling her spit, and gurgles, and sounds. He imagines rocking himself to an orgasm.

He imagines coming. And he comes: a stroke across his bulge is all it takes. His cock throbs. His pants fill with warm cum. It wets the fabric. It trickles down the inners of his thigh. He curves over, gasping and grateful for the harness keeping him safe, because he is weak, and he is up high, and the city is below him.

It hits him as the blood rushes from his groin to his head, and the sight below him clears up: tops of buildings, streets of cars, people running errands.

Jon grabs at the suction cup. He feels sweat dribble down his forehead. As he eyes his feet, kicking the air, he becomes alive again. His heart beats. His lungs fill with the fresh air. His ears hear. And his eyes see:

Daenerys, behind the glass, smiling as she watches him. As he meets her eyes, she leans in, exhales, fills the glass with the mist of her breath. Then, she raises her hands, and writes a number. It is long. It is wet, sticky from her sweat and drool and juices. It shimmers even after she’s pulled back and disappeared, the toilet door closing behind her.

Ten digits. _Mobile number._ Jon can only imagine it’s _hers._

Jon stares. Jon searches his pockets. He looks for _anything_ that might serve to write with. But he has nothing loose on him - just the bucket, the water, the squeegee. So he stares, and he memorises it, imprints it in his brain alongside the images of Daenerys spread out on her bed, fingers embedded in her wet sex. He makes a rhyme of it. It plays on loop in his mind all day.

* * *

It plays on loop as he calls.

Click. A woman: “Hello, Daenerys speaking.” Her voice is warm.

Jon swallows. “Hey, this is Jon.”

There’s a pause. “Who?”

“Jon,” Jon repeats, nervously. “Jon Snow. We’ve met. Kind of.”

“Oh?”

“I’m the window cleaner.”

_“Oh.”_ She sounds surprised. _Pleasantly_ surprised. “You have a good memory, Mr Snow.”

“I was wondering-” He pauses. “I was wondering if you’d like to meet?”

She chuckles: “Do you know room 1029?”

“I’d say so.”

“Mhmm.” He can hear her lips pop, and the television running in the background. Ads are playing: sweet cereal for children, lingerie for adults, a new talkshow. And Jon realises:

he is on the other side, in her phone, making her smile. He is inside the suite.

“Meet me in half an hour,” she says, “but use the door this time.”

Jon laughs. “Yes, Miss,” and she hangs up.

He is in.

**Author's Note:**

> After yesterday's threesome, I just needed some short, dirty Jon/Daenerys to get my, ah, inspiration flowing. It seems I have developed quite the voyeur kink this month! There may be more of that to come, if not this month, then in November.. count on it!
> 
> Hope you liked it and thanks for reading!


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